


Here Will I Remain

by michaelandthegodsquad



Series: From This World-Wearied Flesh [1]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Eye Trauma, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys gets home late, and Jack’s mask is still on</p><p>“I wanna see your face.”</p><p>“You’ve seen my face.”</p><p>OR: In which Rhys asks to see what's under Jack's mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Will I Remain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scootsaboot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot/gifts).



> Scootsaboot asked for gentle scar kisses and well. How can I say no to that?
> 
> Takes place a few years before [Look Your Last](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4273449), and can be read as a standalone.

Rhys gets home late, and Jack’s mask is still on.

That could mean a lot of things, actually; Jack wears a lot of different masks on any given day. Sure, the cocky swagger he carries himself with is genuine a lot of the time, but…there are more days than one might think, when it’s a front that Jack puts up, overcompensating for the thing that twists hot and sour and thick within him.

Tonight, though, Jack’s physical mask is in place, still slotted neatly over his face.

He’s sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, tablet in hand and bedside lamp on when Rhys finds him, pausing in the doorway as he begins tugging off his tie. “You’re up,” Rhys says softly. The fact that Jack is still awake isn’t surprising, but the quiet settled over the house sort of is—Rhys has only lived here for a couple of months and he’s still adjusting to a lot of things.

“Yeah, well,” Jack says from the bed. “Got a couple of things I need you to sign. House stuff. Figured we’d go over them tonight so I can send ‘em out in the morning.” He doesn’t quite look up at Rhys until he’s done, then quirks an eyebrow expectantly. Somewhere in the back of his mind Rhys thinks he looks tired, and nods.

“Yeah, sure. Let me just—” he trails off, finally tugging his tie out of his collar, and heads for the bathroom, undressing and tossing his clothes in with the rest of the laundry. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, frowning as he detaches his arm when he sees that the oil Jack uses to grease the hinges of his mask is still out.

Jack is halfway under the covers already when Rhys rejoins him, sliding his legs between the sheets and sitting up against the headboard as he takes the tablet from Jack and begins reading over the documents he needs to sign. Jack explains what they are, what they mean for Rhys legally in terms of his claim to the house. The whole thing seems crazy to Rhys, considering how little time has passed since he actually moved in, but he listens anyway, using his finger to leave his digital signature wherever he’s told.

Jack keeps talking as he takes the tablet from Rhys again, leaning over to plug it in and going on about how once he sends the documents out to the lawyers, Rhys’s living there will be more official, blah blah blah. Rhys isn’t quite paying attention, staring instead at the edges of the mask, the way its color is a slight offshoot of Jack’s actual skin, the seemingly uncomfortable way it presses in. 

The thing is, Rhys _knows_ what’s under there. Even before he moved in, he knew, sort of, from nights spent as a guest in Jack’s bed ( _their bed,_ now _,_ he reminds himself) and catching glimpses of scarred skin in passing as he brushed his teeth in the morning, or in the dark as he waded into sleep at night. He wonders why, even after two months of living here, that’s _still_ all he’s seen, all he’s been allowed to see.

Jack catches him staring and frowns. “What are you looking at, kiddo?” he says cautiously, already looking like he regrets asking.

Rhys shrugs. “Just you.”

Jack looks like he wants to make a joke, but instead he just sort of grins wryly and looks away. “Glad you like the view, kiddo.” He turns off the lamp on his nightstand, turning his back to Rhys as he brings both hands to his face to pull at the hinges of the mask, unfastening the clasps at his temples before moving down to the one at his chin; he takes the mask off and sets it on his nightstand. Rhys watches him from behind, eyes the planes of Jack’s back as he pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it to the foot of the bed.

Jack lies down, then, his back still turned to Rhys, pulling the covers up and tucking them into his underarm. Rhys lies down behind him, scooting forward to press his front to Jack’s back, arm slipping under the blankets to rest his hand on Jack’s side. He closes his eyes, leans forward a bit to softly kiss Jack’s shoulder, muscles firm and skin warm against his lips. Jack sighs at the contact and relaxes, and Rhys moves his mouth up the curve of his shoulder, lips dragging against skin as he inches towards the junction of Jack’s neck. His hand wanders upward, idly touching Jack’s stomach as it moves towards his chest, fingertips finally resting on his clavicle.

Rhys’s eyes open and immediately settle on the mask on Jack’s nightstand, hollowed eyes staring back at him. He sighs into Jack’s neck, mouth opening slightly to drag teeth against golden skin, and lets his hand inch upward, over Jack’s clavicle, the slope of his throat, the jut of his chin, just barely grazing lips before Jack’s hand shoots up to grip his wrist.

“What are you doing,” Jack says more than asks, tone steady and stoic as his fingers tighten.

Rhys swallows, pressing another soft kiss into his neck. “Nothing, I just—will you look at me?”

“….why.”

“I wanna see your face.”

“You’ve seen my face.”

“ _Jack._ ”

Jack roughly lets go of Rhys’s hand as if pushing it away, quickly pulling back the covers and standing, making his way across the room to drop harshly into the chair by the window. Rhys sits up, blankets bunched in his lap as he watches the tense set of Jack’s shoulders as he buries his face in his hands, sighing.

The quiet that settles over them is deafening as Rhys waits for Jack’s next snarky remark, but it never comes. After a few minutes he swallows, climbing off the bed and making his way to Jack, feet padding quietly across the floor. He drops to his knees between Jack’s spread legs gracefully. Jack doesn’t move, elbows resting on his knees, hands still covering his face, still hiding himself away; Rhys hesitantly brings his hand up to Jack’s tattooed wrist, his grip light as he tugs.

At first Jack resists the movement, hands locked firmly in place despite the pull. “Don’t,” Rhys says quietly, more a breath than a word, and Jack seems to pause before he finally lets Rhys pull his hand away, the other dropping down into his lap with it, his eyes squeezed shut as he waits.

It really is nothing Rhys hasn’t already seen in passing, but here, up close and in the light coming from the window, be it moonlight or starlight or streetlight, he can’t help the way his mouth drops open.

The scar is darkened almost blue where it’s embedded, edges slightly raised where they transition back to skin that was probably once golden like the rest of Jack but now seems pale from a lack of sunlight. The sunken scar tissue is framed by dry skin where it curves up along Jack’s cheek, sloping across his forehead and dropping down over his left eye. Rhys winces quietly, hand reaching up to touch it, pausing as he looks down at Jack’s hands.

The fabric of Jack’s sleep pants is bunched up between his fingers where his hands are clenched in his lap, white-knuckled and ready to fight. Rhys frowns at that, looking back up at Jack’s face just in time to hear the shaky breath he inhales through his nose. Rhys lets his hand fall onto Jack’s, instead leaning forward, swallowing before he presses his lips softly to the end of the scar on the right side.

The scar tissue is rough on Rhys’s lips; Jack’s eyes shoot open at the contact, and Rhys finds himself looking directly into stark white sclera where an iris should be. For a moment he wonders how he missed this, if Jack has been hiding a single green contact lens from him this entire time, but instead of asking about it he draws his lips upward, pressing soft kisses along the length of the scar. Jack is stock still in his seat, breath nearly silent as he watches Rhys, who ignores the way his heart pounds in his ears in favor of continuing to press feather-light kisses along the scar, not stopping until he reaches the other side.

Jack is still watching him as Rhys gently presses their lips together. When Rhys pulls back, barely a few inches, he doesn’t quite smile or smirk, but the corner of his mouth quirks up a bit as he whispers, “Hey, handsome.”

Jack lets out an almost hysterical sounding bark of a laugh at that, his hands shaking when they wrap around Rhys’s waist, pulling him closer so Jack can press his mouth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, frantically mouthing and nipping at the skin. Rhys’s hand comes up to tangle in Jack’s hair as he exhales a shuddery breath, words trying to roll off his tongue but tumbling out as gasps instead.

Jack only pulls away from his neck to cover Rhys’s open mouth with his own, lips and tongues crashing together desperately as they cling to each other. Rhys hums when Jack tightens his grip on his waist and stands, lifting Rhys, who quickly gets his long legs around Jack’s hips, latching onto him. Jack pulls away only long enough to breathe Rhys’s name against his lips as he walks them back to bed. Rhys slots their mouths together again and distantly he realizes that he’s never kissed Jack without his mask before but it’s _good, god, so good._

Finally Jack lays Rhys back onto the bed, looming over him without ever detaching his mouth. Their hands reach for each other in the dark and neither of them quite say the words that night but Rhys thinks that maybe they don’t have to.

**Author's Note:**

> Come harass me on [Tumblr](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/) and find out how you can get me to write stuff for you.


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